Boring
by WerewolfDoctor
Summary: John and Mycroft become friends after Sherlock's 'death.' This is the story of that friendship, and eventual reunion with Sherlock. The title comes from the first section bit, but isn't that relevant to the story.


**Boring**

_A/N-This is assuming that Mycroft had no part in Sherlock's 'death' and disappearance, which I know is a popular theory, and a likely one, since that's how it happened in the original books, but I think, in the modern BBC version, it has a much better edge if he hadn't. Enjoy._

**John POV**

Mycroft had come round for his weekly talk.

I thought I would never forgive Mycroft. Perhaps it was a desperate need to talk to somebody who actually _understood_. Whatever the reason Mycroft, being Mycroft, had managed to wheedle his way to forgiveness. Why he cared about what I thought, I don't know. But he actually seemed to.

It was strange, really. Mycroft and I had almost become friends. Not that we were enemies … _before_, we were bound by our joint cause of looking after Sherlock. I tried not to think about how completely we failed in that respect. I didn't ever succeed, but I tried.

But now he came round weekly, and we talked. Occasionally, just occasionally, we touched on the subject of Sherlock, then flitted away before the wound dragged too deep.

Sometimes I wondered why he came, but Mycroft's visits were a comfort, of sorts, and I assume they were a comfort to him, for whatever reason. It was the only reason I could think of for him coming. That, and his own need to assuage his guilt.

One visit, he came on the dot of 6.30pm, as usual, (he had probably organised the traffic so it mysteriously disappeared) and I collapsed in my usual armchair. "I'm bored," I half growled out of the blue, surprising both him and myself. He looked at me with an almost curious expression, "Well are you surprised?" I demanded, "You figured it out the first time we met. As did Sherlock. The reason I run-_ran_," I choked slightly on the word, then shook my head to clear it, embarrassed, "_ran_ around after Sherlock all the time. I missed the war. The adventure. And now there's nothing to do. Just go to the most hideous nine-to-five job imaginable, dealing with brats with colds and their insufferable parents who insist that it's a dangerous, previously unheard of virus and their precious darling is going to die!" I didn't realise that I had been half yelling towards the end until I had to stop for breath.

"I wasn't surprised that you were bored _Captain_ Watson," said Mycroft with the barest hint of a smile. I noted his use of 'Captain'. Recently he had taken to calling me 'John', a sign of our almost friendship, I suppose, but even before he had only called me 'Doctor Watson'. I could not help but feel flattered. A sign of an expert manipulator, I guess.

"No," continued Mycroft, breaking me out of my thoughts, "what surprised me was how much you sounded like Sherlock. The exact way you said 'bored', and your rant afterwards was all so familiar it almost," Mycroft hesitated, and I knew how much he hated admitting weakness, to _feelings_, "hurt."

We sat silent for a long time after that until Mycroft got up and wordlessly walked out the flat. I didn't move for a long time.

**Mycroft POV**

I exited the flat and slid into the silently waiting unmarked black car. I gave no sign that this particular conversation with John had shaken me, and Anthea didn't ask. Though Anthea was privy to many of the affairs I was involved in, there were many in which I was afforded absolute privacy. My talks with John were one of them, though unusually she knew some of the reasons. This was a personal matter, to do with John and Sherlock.

Though Anthea regularly changed her name, a necessary security precaution, and one, all the agents admitted, they rather enjoyed and turned it into something of a game, she was always Anthea when dealing with John Watson. A sentiment that was a slight security risk, but we all have our foibles.

_I'm bored._

To be honest, I was worried about John. His grief made the problem several times worse, though he hid it extraordinarily well for someone of his temperament. John's problem was so scarily similar to Sherlock's, yet giving him a puzzle could not solve it. John had described Sherlock best, once, _"He's a stupidly tall, impossibly clever, toddler. Just give him a puzzle to play with and he'll be fine_._"_ Once Sherlock had realised that solving cases satisfied his mind more than any chemical plaything Sherlock operated well. Then he met John, and the man who never made friends made one he was horrendously obsessive and possessive over. John completed Sherlock; and so it was not surprising that Sherlock was terrified of loosing this thing he never knew he wanted so much.

And I think Sherlock completed John, though it is impossible for me to say for certain, since I did not know him before he met Sherlock. But it led to the ultimate problem. Originally John needed Sherlock merely for the adrenaline rush he desired so much, that can be easily provided in many forms. But then it progressed. Sherlock provided something unique and that was the thing that John needed, and that need was destroying him.

I do not think, from my limited knowledge of John Watson, that John would turn to chemical release in any form, as Sherlock did, but there are many forms of self destruction. It is one of the reasons I took myself to the flat each week, apart from the fact that I have, despite myself, come to enjoy these talks. The problem is, I now had to watch one of the very few people I consider 'friend' disintegrate before my eyes. I once told Sherlock that caring was not an advantage; that it only led to pain. Sometimes I agreed with my past words, sometimes I felt the warmth that friendship brings. Though I admit I was trying to convince myself as much as Sherlock. Sherlock was always the one thing I cared about above all others, and could be seen as my weakness, and as the incidents with Adler and Moriarty proved so ably, any weaknesses of mine could prove disastrous.

**John POV**

About a month after _that_ conversation and I had reached a decision. The conversation, as odd though it was, had led me to trust Mycroft slightly more. I wanted something, something I had wanted since my childhood and only recently realised that Mycroft could give it to me. Still, releasing all those emotions and memories I had so successfully suppressed all these years was a terrifying prospect.

When Mycroft arrived I was pacing around the flat, demented and completely unable to stop moving even if my life depended on it. Mycroft stood, waiting for me to speak, though his eyes narrowed just slightly in that infinitely recognisable way. After a few moments I realised with a small, unexpected spark of triumph that Mycroft hadn't been able to deduce why I was so agitated. I decided just to launch in. Get it over with.

"I always wondered how Sherlock never realised, being who he was," Mycroft raised his eyebrow in question. "I have a desperate desire for danger, though I can see how he missed that, it's a common trait to find in ex-soldiers, along with PTSD. But I also have an almost pathological need to be _useful_, more importantly, to be told I'm useful. My sister is a raging alcoholic and has a poor history when it comes to personal relationships," I turned abruptly and looked Mycroft straight in the eye. "Tell me, what would you deduce about our childhood?"

"Most likely abusive," he said immediately, with his eyebrow quirked and I knew he could see where this was going.

"Not quite. My Mother died in childbirth. My Father blamed me for her death. Or, at least, that was his excuse. But my sister was his little angel. She was protective of me, but I was resentful of her," I paused, noting the similarity between myself and Harry, and Sherlock and Mycroft. The elder protective, but the younger resentful. No doubt Mycroft was doing the same, "But that doesn't matter. The point is, nobody believed the word of a deranged child over that of a respectable lawyer," I gave a bitter smile, "you are no doubt aware of the way the world works, Mycroft."

He inclined his head, acknowledging his part in 'the way the world works'. Before saying, "Your word choice is odd. You do not strike me as 'deranged', John," I almost laughed at Mycroft for just focusing on one insignificant word out of the whole conversation, but I explained anyway.

"I learnt how to separate myself from the event, something, apparently, that many abused children do to cope, and a real advantage for an army doctor. Unfortunately it was not a skill I possessed when I was seven," I took a deep breath. "I'm sure you can work out what I want. I want my Father to face every penalty the law can offer him."

Mycroft gave a single nod, "It would give me great pleasure."

The strange thing was, I honestly think he meant it.

**Mycroft POV**

I took care of everything with more relish than such procedures usually gave me. The procedure itself wasn't hard. In the end John didn't even have to stand as a witness,

_Standing as a witness is boring_, whispered a voice in the back of my mind,

That was one of the advantages of being the British Government.

When I told John the good news in our weekly talk a look of uncharacteristic vicious satisfaction clouded his face, then he clenched his fists and very deliberately moved the conversation on. It was all very unlike John. It was especially unlike him not to thank someone who had helped him. I was, as I had already said, even if John believed me to be insincere, more than happy to hurt the monster that had hurt the man who I had become rather fond and protective of. This business with his Father had brought up memories he had spent a lifetime burying, so I did not mention his unusual behaviour.

The next time we met he seemed to have recovered somewhat from the ordeal with his Father, which I was thankful for. He gave me an embarrassed smile and said, "Thanks, for what you did. I … er forgot to thank you last time. I'd say I owe you one, but that would be a bit ridiculous." He obviously believed he had nothing I would need or want. For some reason I found the whole idea of John believing himself to be worthless rather distasteful.

An idea occurred to me. I remembered what John said about his almost pathological need to be useful, and to _know_ he was useful. That wasn't the reason I said what I said next, I honestly meant it, but assuaging that need factored into it.

"John," I said, "I don't think you realise how much these talks have come to mean to me as well. I admit I started them because I was concerned about you and did not think my brother would have wanted you to suffer, but they have helped me to an extent as well. Admittedly, to my surprise." I admit I was exaggerating slightly. But, only slightly. The incident had changed us all. Whether it had changed me for the better or worse I could not tell.

John just looked at me. I don't think he quite believed me. Sensible of him; I had lied to and manipulated enough people in my life, including him, but I think he took the compliment, none the less. He nodded.

**John POV**

"Some days I can't stand to be in the flat at all," I said in one of our talks. "It's too quiet. There's still Mrs Hudson, chatting way and she tries her best, but it's not … it's not Sherlock announcing his theories at a million miles an hour, or the bloody violin at two in the morning, or another argument because he left a severed head in the fridge again, or … or …"

"I know," Mycroft's voice scratched out, "I know."

**Mycroft POV**

"Just, for God's sake, don't shoot anybody else," I said wearily into my mobile.

A group of thugs had attacked John and Mrs Hudson. Unfortunately, they seemed to be part of Moriarty's organisation, wanting revenge, and with my little brother no longer around … or they were acting on orders left over from the master criminal. Enquiries would have to be made, and security increased. Current security needed to be rebuked for their laxness.

"_I don't think there _is_ anybody else left,"_ replied John, aiming at apologetic and failing miserably. _"Sorry, army instincts just kicked in. They drill them into you y'know, irretrievably. Makes civilian life so difficult."_

There was a note of longing in John's voice which he tried to hide. He was obviously thinking of the times, in the army, and more importantly to him, with Sherlock, when his army instincts had been essential. John didn't, and never had, wanted to live as a civilian, no matter what his therapist said about needing to adjust. As I had said the first time we met, London was a battlefield. John was its first soldier, but he was lost.

I put the phone down slowly. Although any idiot could see that what John had done was self-defence, he had still just killed numerous men, and would still face a court case. If no one protected him. It was rather surprising to me that my immediate reaction was to protect this rather ordinary man. I picked up the phone once more and made the call.

John Watson. Doctor John Watson. Captain John Watson. He had somehow changed my brother for the better and now wormed himself into my life without even knowing it. I looked at the now silent phone. I had always despised sentimentality, but, "I'm sorry Sherlock," I whispered. It had become my mantra of late. "I'll look after him for you, now you cannot."

It could never be enough, but it was something.

I rung the police to clear John's charges, and one DI Lestrade picked up the phone.

…

"Are you still seeing your _therapist_?" I asked, emphasising the word 'therapist', letting him knew exactly what I thought of her. Then again, he already knew what I thought; I had made that clear from our first meeting.

He raised an eyebrow; he knew it wasn't a question, I knew all his movements, "It's fun in it's own way," I raised an eyebrow. "I like finding new and interesting ways to creep her out. Childish, I know. Though I think she's finally lost it, I'm apparently turning sociopathic! Even I know that's stupid." He turned thoughtful, "Y'know, I never really thought Sherlock was sociopathic, high functioning or otherwise. He was something, certainly, but he wasn't a sociopath. I know I'm not an expert, but I am a doctor, I do know something."

I gave a small smile, "Do you know, Doctor, I agree with you entirely, but once he was given the label he accepted it. It gave him a shield from the world."

We were both silent for a few moments, as always when Sherlock came up.

**John POV**

I eventually left Barts and went to work for Mycroft. Not my ideal job, and I shuddered to think of what Sherlock would say about working for _Mycroft_, but at least I didn't feel like I was going to die of boredom and The Job went some way to satisfying my need for adventure. It was enough.

Of course, I could never talk about The Job, and I had to have a cover story made to explain it away.

Mycroft, surprisingly enough, was a fairly benevolent boss, and we kept up our weekly meetings. Of course, being part of Mycroft's organisation I had to abide by his rule of regularly changing names, and so I joined in The Game. I even won the prize for 'Most Interesting Name' once or twice, which made a change from boring old 'John.'

It was nice not being John. Darius didn't need Sherlock to survive. Everyone liked Rory. Pip was playful and enjoyed life. I liked Pip the most.

Obi-Wan Kenobi was disqualified from The Game. Apparently, he didn't fit with the regulations, and I suppose Obi would stand out when going on covert jobs. I still remember Mycroft giving me _the look_ and the hint of a smile Mycroft hadn't been able to suppress, because I had known Obi-Wan Kenobi would be disqualified, of course he would. It was just a joke.

But there was a laugh and a smile and a joke. A fake pout when Obi's name was taken away. For a moment, life felt like a game, the game I used to play.

…

They say there are five stages of grief. I've always disliked that theory. It's too clinical. Everybody's different and everybody deals with their grief in different ways. It also implies that when you are done with your five stages then it's over. The grieving is over. No relapses. The last stage is acceptance. Congratulations Doctor Watson, you are now over your grief and happy and joyful and ready to get on with your life without the man you …

The man who fixed me.

The man I watched throw himself off Bart's roof.

_Bart's_

The place we met. The place I worked at. I loved that place. It was the start off a new life and the drudgery of day-to-day work and rubbish coffee and good friends.

I hate that place.

Funny. There's nothing in those five stages about 'wistful' is there?

**Mycroft POV**

One of the reasons that both John and I had never quite been able to move on was that both of us had never quite believed that Sherlock had committed suicide. Both of us had known Sherlock, though admittedly, and to my everlasting shame, in the relatively short time John knew my brother, he had known him far better than I ever had. But both of us had known Sherlock and had known how unlike him it was to commit suicide, seemingly out of the blue.

Both of us had obsessed over the event, and noted that the evidence didn't quite add up. Sherlock's 'confession', for one, was so obviously a lie that I was almost ashamed. John had told me that firstly Sherlock couldn't have researched him because Sherlock hadn't been aware of John's existence before Mike Stamford had introduced them; a quick question to the man in question had proved that. A million other things pounded at the edge of our minds and never let go, leaving us with the inevitable question, if not suicide, what? And why? And the most important, where are you and why aren't you back?

It was therefore more a relief than a surprise to find Sherlock, as dishevelled as he was, in my office one evening. There was a pause, a sudden, ringing silence, and the distance that had always existed between us seemed to stretch.

"Explain," I said, and he started to explain how he had faked his death. "No," I interrupted him, "over these years I, and John, to an extent, have come up with many theories of how you might have faked your death, none of which interest me at the current time. What I wish to know is _why_."

And so Sherlock explained. Explained Moriarty's ultimatum, explained his absence, explained everything, and we both didn't say what we both knew. The reason why Sherlock had come to me before John: he was terrified of John's inevitable reaction; he would be hurt, confused and angry, and Sherlock wouldn't be able to cope, knowing he had caused John that pain. So, for the first time since he was a child, he had come to his older brother for help, though his pride did not allow him to say it. I could not help the warm feeling that gave me.

"Get yourself cleaned up," I told him, once we had finished talking. "You know where to go. And get yourself some new clothes. I'll get John." He froze. "Sooner is better than later, Sherlock," I said softly. "Don't worry, I'll explain everything to him. It will be hard, but you know it will be worth it," and he smiled.

…

The reunion felt almost unreal. They were not acting like themselves. Sherlock was fidgeting and nervous. John was a ball of mixed emotions, unsure how to feel. He was angry, hurt, elated, tired. There was a vicious, bitter joy at having been proved _right_. I might have suggested he sit and try to deal with his emotions before he met Sherlock for the first time in three years, but overriding everything was the desire to see Sherlock and I am sure he would have punched anyone who tried to stop him. I have been reliably informed that John's punches _hurt_, even when he was holding back.

They stood at opposite ends of my office. John was holding himself in full military style, all his fighting emotions ruthlessly contained. I waited.

"I want to punch you. I should punch you. But it wouldn't achieve anything." John's voice was clipped, tinged with defeat.

"Thank you. I'm-"

"Don't apologise. It doesn't suit you. Mycroft's explained everything."

I knew for a fact that John liked it when Sherlock remembered to apologise when he had done something wrong, because it showed he cared about what John thought of him. Now, though, John was wound tight and refusing to let go. Even though he had wanted this reunion, he did not now how to deal with it.

"Did he explain how much I missed you?"

"At least you knew I was alive."

"I know. I know. Believe me, if I thought there was any other way I would have taken it. But there, on that rooftop I found I would do absolutely anything to keep you safe, even if it ended up hurting you. I _am_ sorry for what I put you through, but I'm not sorry for saving your life."

John crumpled, his wafer thin defences falling at Sherlock's uncharacteristic heartfelt speech. I exited the office silently. As interested as I was in my little brother's affairs, even I know that there are some cases in which privacy is required.

**Epilogue**

A week later John called me. I was surprised, I assumed John and Sherlock would be far too engrossed in their newfound relationship to bother with me, and I especially knew Sherlock would not want me getting involved.

"_Hi, Mycroft,"_ came John's voice. Despite the weary tone, no one could mistake the complete happiness, and I allowed myself a small smile.

"Is there anything I can help you with, John?"

"_Have you heard of those 'For Dummies' books?"_

"Unfortunately."

"_Well, do you think they do one on relationships? In fact, I think Sherlock needs one written specifically for Sherlock. I don't think a normal one would suffice."_

I amused myself for a moment picturing Sherlock religiously studying a book on relationships in order to be best prepared.

"I'll see what I can do."


End file.
